The Iron Collar

​Chapter 4: The Iron Collar

Joss's POV

​Control was not merely a habit to me, it was the bedrock upon which I had built the Northern Citadel.

​A spymaster measures life in secrets, but a sovereign measures it in leverage. For ten years, I had held every piece on the board with absolute precision. Generals bowed to my silence, rival realms trembled at the mere prospect of my shadow-bound legions, and assassins the best the Southern Guilds could buy had died silently in the dark corridors beneath my feet.

​Except one.

​Gawin Caskey sat at the far end of the marble bathing chamber, wrapped in a dark velvet robe that swallowed his lean frame. He looked frail, a sight that infuriated me because I knew it was a lie. Beneath that pale skin and those dark circles under his eyes lay a lethal, wounded predator. Even now, with his core bound and his body fighting the early strains of a royal pregnancy, his hands were steady. He was watching the movement of my jaw, the rhythm of my breath, calculating how many seconds it would take to drive a hidden silver pin through my jugular if I leaned two inches closer.

​I loved that about him. It made the air in the room feel alive, taut as a bowstring waiting to snap.

​"You're staring, Lord Way-er," Gawin rasped. His voice was still rough from the dungeon dampness, but the venom had returned to his tone. "Is it standard protocol in the North to watch your prisoners like a hound guarding a bone?"

​I stood by the arched stone window, letting the cold mountain wind bite at my neck while the steam from the sunken bath filled the room with the scent of pine and crushed cedar.

​"You aren't a bone, Gawin," I said smoothly, turning to face him. "And you aren't in the dungeon anymore. Though if you prefer the stone floor to silk, I can certainly have the bedding removed."

​"I prefer an open door," he spat, his dark eyes narrowing into narrow dangerous slits. "Or does the great Lord of the North fear what happens if a half-starved assassin gets his boots back?"

​"I don't fear you, Spymaster," I said, taking three slow, deliberate steps toward him.

​The movement was calculated. I watched his fingers twitch against the fabric of his robe, a micro-expression only a trained eye would spot, revealing his instinct to reach for a hilt that wasn't there. His breath hitched slightly as I closed the distance between us, stopping just inches from where he sat on the carved stone bench.

​"What I fear," I continued, dropping my voice until it was low enough to vibrate against his chest, "is your stupidity. You think this is a game of political hostage-taking. You think I am keeping you here to break your spirit or parade you before my council."

​Gawin tilted his chin up, refusing to break eye contact even as his pale skin flushed with a faint, stubborn heat. "Isn't it? You're a tyrant, Joss. You take what you want and call it law. You found a rare trait in my blood and decided it belongs to the Citadel."

​"It does belong to the Citadel," I growled softly, leaning down until my shadow enveloped him completely. "Because you belong here."

​"I am a weapon of the Southern Shadow Guild," he snarled, his jaw tightening so hard I heard the click of his teeth. "I have no allegiance to your crown, your bloodline, or your absurd ancestral myths."

​"The Aethel-Core is no myth, Gawin," I replied, reaching out.

​He flinched, a tiny, defensive movement but he didn't pull back. My fingers brushed the cold silk of his collar, trailing down to the base of his neck where his pulse hammered against his skin like a trapped bird. I could feel the faint, irregular rhythm of his magic,unstable, wild, and struggling to harmonize with the royal essence settled deep within his core.

​"Your body knows it, even if your stubborn mind refuses to admit it," I murmured, resting my thumb right over his throbbing pulse. "Six weeks ago, in that border tavern, you didn't fight me. You didn't reach for a dagger when I pulled you onto that table in the dark. Your magic opened up to mine before I even knew your real name."

​Gawin’s breath rattled in his lungs. A spark of pure, unadulterated shame flashed through his dark eyes, quickly replaced by a hot, dangerous fury.

​"That was a mistake," he choked out, his hands coiling into tight fists against his thighs. "A moment of weakness."

​"It was destiny," I corrected coldly. "And now, that 'weakness' is carrying the future of the Northern Syndicate."

​I let go of his neck, stepping back toward the table where Master Edwin had left the second medicinal dosage for the evening. The sight of the dark glass vials made my own blood run hot with a protective edge I had never experienced in my life. I had executed generals for incompetence, I had wiped out entire rebel houses without blinking. Yet the thought of Gawin suffering a single violent fever from magic depletion made a dark, feral rage claw at the back of my mind.

​He was my enemy. He had been sent to slit my throat while I slept.

​And now, I would burn the entire realm to ash before I let anyone touch a hair on his head.

​"Drink this," I commanded, picking up the small silver chalice mixed with the blood-fortifying draught.

​Gawin looked at the chalice, then up at me, his lip curling into a bitter smile. "And if I refuse? Will you drag me to the bed and force it down my throat again?"

​"If necessary," I said without a trace of hesitation. "Though I'd prefer you save your strength for something more useful than fighting me over a spoon."

​"Useful?" Gawin let out a short, harsh laugh. "What useful thing can a caged assassin do for you, Lord Way-er? Shall I draft your execution lists? Or perhaps I should sit by your throne and embroider royal baby blankets?"

​"You will manage my intelligence network," I said flatly.

​The room went dead silent. The crackle of the hearth sounded suddenly loud against the thick stone walls.

​Gawin stared at me, his dark eyes widening in genuine shock for the first time since I had dragged him out of the dungeon. "What did you just say?"

​"You heard me," I said, crossing my arms over my chest as I watched him process the words. "The Southern Realm is already mobilizing. They know your mission failed, but they don't yet know why you are still alive. My council wants to execute every Southern spy within fifty miles of the border. I want you to run the counter-espionage."

​"You're insane," Gawin whispered, shaking his head slowly. "You're going to hand the keys to your entire intelligence apparatus to the man who was paid ten thousand gold pieces to kill you?"

​"I am handing it to the mother of my child," I corrected sternly. "And a man who understands how the Southern Guilds think better than anyone alive. You want freedom, Gawin? You want to prove you aren't just a docile captive sitting in my chambers?"

​I walked over, thrusting the chalice directly into his hand. His fingers closed around the cold silver instinctively.

​"Drink the tonic, recover your strength, and build me a shadow network that keeps the war away from these walls," I said, towering over him with absolute authority. "Give me the heads of your former handlers, and I will give you every luxury, every piece of information, and every protection this Citadel can offer."

​Gawin looked down at the dark, shimmering liquid in the cup, his chest rising and falling in sharp, heavy breaths. I could see the wheels turning behind those intelligent, lethal eyes. He was searching for the trap, calculating the odds, trying to figure out how to turn this offer into his eventual escape.

​He didn't realize that every move he made was drawing him deeper into my web. Giving him power wasn't a risk, it was a tether. The more involved he became in protecting the Citadel, the more he would be forced to protect the life growing inside him.

​"And if I use your intelligence network to contact my old guild?" Gawin asked, his voice low and dangerous as he raised his eyes to meet mine. "If I sell your secrets back to the South?"

​I leaned down, placing my hand over his on the chalice, forcing him to hold it steady.

​"Then I will hunt down every man, woman, and child in the Southern Guilds and slaughter them in front of you," I whispered, my golden eyes locked onto his with absolute, unyielding brutality. "And then I will bring you back here, chain you to my bed, and make sure you never see the light of day again. Do we understand each other, Spymaster?"

​A shiver ran through Gawin’s body,not of fear, but of a dark, electric tension that made his pupils dilate. He hated me. He hated the power I held over him. But beneath that hatred, the bond was already taking root, linking his pulse to mine, his magic to my bloodline.

​Without another word, Gawin raised the chalice to his lips and drank the entire contents in one long, defiance-filled gulp.

​He slammed the empty silver chalice down on the stone table, wiping his mouth with the back of his velvet sleeve. His cheeks were flushed, his breath coming in hot, shallow puffs as the magic in the potion hit his bloodstream, surging straight toward his lower abdomen.

​"I hate you," Gawin rasped, his voice thick with rising heat as he glared up at me.

​I smiled, a cold, possessive curve of my lips as I reached out, my fingers tangling in the soft, dark strands of his hair, tilting his face up toward mine.

​"You can hate me all you like, Gawin," I murmured, leaning in until my lips brushed against the shell of his ear, hearing his pulse leap in response. "As long as you remember who you belong to."